The Caterer's Confession
"Divine Eats has catered every major event in Baltimore. When her biggest client's father starts helping in the kitchen, the menu expands unexpectedly."
Divine Eats is my life's work.
Twenty years of building the best catering company in Baltimore. Weddings, galas, corporate events—if it matters, I feed it.
I'm Vanessa. Fifty-six. Chef, owner, perpetual workaholic.
"My father wants to help."
My biggest client, Lauren Shaw, looks apologetic.
"Your father?"
"He's retired. Driving my mother crazy. He says he wants to learn the business."
I should say no. I work alone for a reason.
But the Shaw account is worth a fortune.
Marcus Shaw is not what I expected.
Sixty-four, former CEO, hands soft from desk work. He shows up Monday morning with a notepad.
"Where do I start?"
"Dishes."
"Dishes?"
"Everyone starts with dishes." I hand him an apron. "You want to learn? Learn from the bottom."
He doesn't complain.
Spends three days washing dishes without a word. Watches everything, takes notes, asks questions that show he's actually paying attention.
"Why do you cut the onions that way?"
"Faster, more even." I demonstrate. "Want to try?"
He tries. Cuts himself. Bandages up. Keeps going.
"You're different from what I expected."
We're prepping for a wedding. He's graduated to chopping.
"What did you expect?"
"Something softer." He focuses on his technique. "Someone who'd take it easy on the CEO's father."
"I don't take it easy on anyone."
"I noticed." He looks up. "I like it."
Weeks turn into months.
Marcus becomes genuinely useful—not CEO skills, but real kitchen work. He learns sauces, times, the rhythm of a professional operation.
"My daughter thinks I've lost my mind," he admits.
"Why?"
"Working for free in a kitchen at my age." He laughs. "She doesn't understand."
"Understand what?"
"That I haven't felt this alive in twenty years."
The confession comes during a late-night prep session.
Just us in the kitchen, surrounded by ingredients for tomorrow's gala.
"My wife left me last year," he says.
"I didn't know."
"We kept it quiet. Forty years of marriage, and she said I never really saw her." He chops with more force. "She was right."
"And now?"
"Now I see everything." He stops, looks at me. "Especially you."
"Marcus—"
"I know. I'm your client's father. I work for you. This is complicated."
"Complicated isn't impossible."
"What?"
"Complicated isn't impossible." I move closer. "I've been complicated my whole life."
He kisses me between the prep stations.
Flour on my hands, sauce on his apron, everything we've been building between us finally releasing.
"Not here," I gasp.
"My place is ten minutes."
"Finish the prep first."
He laughs. "Still the boss."
"Always."
His place is elegant, empty, too big for one person.
He fills it by pressing me against the counter, his hands finding my curves beneath my chef's coat.
"I've thought about this since week one," he admits.
"I've thought about it since you didn't complain about dishes."
He undresses me in his kitchen.
Appropriate, somehow. His mouth tastes every inch—shoulder, breast, belly.
"Delicious," he murmurs.
"You're corny."
"I'm a man who knows what he likes." He sinks to his knees. "Let me show you."
His mouth between my legs is revelation.
Patient, skilled, learning me the way he learned knife work. By the time I come, I'm gripping his granite countertops.
"More," I demand.
"Whatever you need."
He lifts me onto the island.
Enters me surrounded by copper pots and expensive equipment. The kitchen becomes a different kind of workspace.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't stop."
"Never."
We make love in every room of his house.
Kitchen, living room, master bedroom. By morning, we're exhausted and laughing.
"What do we tell Lauren?" I ask.
"The truth, eventually." He pulls me close. "That I found something worth more than a successful business."
"What's that?"
"A partner." He kisses my forehead. "In everything."
Divine Eats gets a new investor.
Marcus makes it official, puts in real money. The company expands.
"Conflict of interest," someone mutters.
"Conflict of love," I correct.
The wedding we cater a year later is our own.
In my industrial kitchen, surrounded by staff who became family.
"To the woman who made me start over," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who learned to wash dishes," I counter.
We kiss between the prep stations.
Some recipes take time to develop.
Some kitchens become homes.
And some caterers find that the best meals are the ones shared with the right person.